Minefield Triptych
by CityDurl
Summary: "I'm sorry you never knew the woman Tasha became. I think you might have been proud of her." The child she was and the woman she becomes are tested against three minefields. Does she have the mettle to survive?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This story has been brewing for a while. I wanted to write a fix to reconcile Picard's account of seeing Tasha for the first time in his talk with Ishara during Legacy and the past reality scenes in All Good Things… where it's obvious that they're strangers to each other when Tasha is piloting the shuttle to the Enterprise. I also like writing back stories for Tasha. I have family and friends who are not strangers to the effects of poverty and war, and I'm interested in how difficult childhood experiences shape an adult's makeup. It's a somewhat dark piece, rated T for suggestions of carnage and acts of terrorism.**

One

She is good with directions. She repeats them precisely to the older child. "Down through the prefabs that got bombed out three weeks ago. Past the concrete sewer mouths. Turn left after the first hill. Right after the munitions dump, over the second hill, and straight on through the old farmland."

"You got it, kid." The boy has a shrewd face, but flesh on his cheeks, as if he's been regularly fed.

"Don't tell anybody else, okay? Give us a head start."

"Can't promise nothin'."

"Then we'd better hop. C'mon, Ishara." Tasha grabs her sister's hand and sets off at a run.

The smaller girl is five and a half, able to hold up her end of a conversation, able to keep up if she runs flat out. Tasha is nearly eleven. She'd been going through a growth spurt on the strength of regular food and care, until their erstwhile foster family became the latest victim of wrong place wrong time. It was practically an epidemic on Turkana IV.

"Move your rear. We only get one chance to be first," Tasha admonishes.

"Why'd he tell us, anyway? If it's food, why's he gonna share?" Ishara's piping voice doesn't match her cynical words.

Tasha thinks about this and slows to a jog. "Outta the goodness of his heart?"

"Ha, ha, ha. Slow down, already. Let's walk."

"I wanna get there first." But Tasha slows down further and eases off on the sharp tugs to the little hand.

"If it's there, it's there. If it's not, it's not."

"True that."

They reach the bombed-out settlement and slow considerably more, scanning the ground. It is eerily quiet. The Federation-issue dwellings still stand, but there are no people, no vehicles, nothing that moves.

"Should we go scavenging?" Ishara whispers.

"Not here. They used cluster bombs. One unexploded can could take out you and me and all the rats."

Ishara looks longingly at the empty houses. There might be a toy or some shoes…

"Watch where you step. Move it." Tasha tugs hard and picks up speed again. The ghost town frightens her; she wants out as soon as possible.

With the shattered town behind them, the yawning mouths of the sewers beckon. They are very familiar to Tasha; they make good hiding places. They're filthy, and there's a chance of catching a fatal disease from the vermin in the muck, but generally the gang members won't follow you in there. Generally.

Ishara runs against Tasha's back. "I thought I saw something!" she cries.

"Where?"

"In the black gunk." She points a grubby finger at the rivulets of filth oozing down the cracks in the concrete.

"Probably bats. Or slugs. Don't worry. I gotcha."

Ishara sticks to her older sister like a leech. "You got me."

She stays on Tasha's heels until they reach the first hill. It is not natural – the colonists had resorted to the ancient, toxic practice of creating a landfill to store waste when the cadres had started confiscating replicators and reprocessors. Metal tubes vent acrid fumes.

"Mt. Garbage," Tasha comments dryly.

The ground is uneven and bulgy. Both girls avoid touching the grey-green soil with their hands. At the top, the stench is at its strongest. They scramble to get down the other side.

More forbidding scenery awaits them west of the hill. Ishara doesn't complain about running now – the scarred, desolate landscape inspires fear. No one lives out this way. It had been one of the more densely populated outlying areas, thus the hardest hit by the gang wars. The cadres had fought for control until they'd bombed everything useful out of existence. All that was left were twisted, blackened ruins of houses, community buildings, ground vehicles, and sometimes, people.

"I hate this place!" Ishara screeches.

"Then run faster."

They reach the munitions dump, its razor wire fence two meters high. It is one of the last vestiges of the founding government's presence. They run past bunkers, grey and nondescript, but the girls know what hides within: aging weapons whose deadliness has been outpaced by newer models that will kill more people and raze more land. An electrified hum attests to the automated security system. The hurry past piles of obsolete ordinance: spent shell casings, empty power cells, husks of torpedoes, and mountains of empty canisters and antimatter containers, a giant monument to the ugly refuse of war. The government moves it here, away from the people, so it can do the least harm after its job of doing the most harm is done.

Tasha begins to have doubts – if there's really a food lift past this junk, why is it there? Why wouldn't it be somewhere anyone can get to it? Are the government forces really so incompetent? But knowing what she does of her world, she realizes that anything is possible. She feels hopeful and hopeless at the same time.

"What if it's a trap?" Ishara asks, giving voice to Tasha's fears.

"Then we have to be ready. C'mon, brat. We're almost there."

The second hill is a natural one, complete with sliding rocks, thorny brush, snakes, and poisonous plants. The girls scale it gingerly, Tasha pulling Ishara up behind her. They know the look of the leaves that will make their skin itch and swell, know the difference between a rock and a curled-up viper. They are survivors – they use all their senses to skirt danger.

They reach the top, a scrubby, rocky plateau. Tasha shades her eyes as she looks off in the distance. "I think I see something – could be ration packs."

"Come on!" Ishara tugs her hand now, rejuvenated with the promise of reward. "D'ya see any people?"

"Not a soul."

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon!" A good food cache means a few days of easy living, maybe enough to trade for clothes or supplies, if they can keep it hidden from the big kids and grownups. Ishara isn't sure which is the worse threat.

They run down the hill, momentum carrying Ishara ahead of her swift-footed sister. The dirt of the old farmland is black and rutted, and now she can see the neon orange wrappers lying in the ruts ahead.

"Yes! We made it!" She runs faster.

"Wait, Shar." Something about the look of them niggles at Tasha's mind, sets off her suspicions.

"We're almost there!" Ishara runs faster.

"Wait!" Tasha picks up speed –she can outrun the smaller girl easily, but something tells her to be cautious.

The skinny little legs flash against the black soil. Ishara is reaching a small cluster of packages. And suddenly, the image clicks in Tasha's mind.

"Stop! Ishara, stop right where you are!"

The command in her sister's voice surmounts Ishara's instinct to keep going. "Why?"

"Back up." Tasha swallows, her breath coming fast and hard. "No!" Her shout freezes the little girl again. "Don't turn around. Step straight back."

Ishara's brows are knitted, but she obeys. "Why? What is it?"

Tasha is silent but for her panting until Ishara stumbles backwards into her. She clutches the younger girl in a fierce embrace and buries her face in the dirty yellow hair.

"What is it, Tasha? What is it?"

She puts her lips to Ishara's head. "That's not food, Shar. Those are cluster bombs."

Ishara gasps and shakes as if someone has poured ice water over her. "How do you know?"

"The shape. The color of the packaging is right, but the shape is all wrong. They're not ration packs. They're bombs made to look like them."

The reality of it hits them – orange cylinders dot the barren fields like poppies. "It's an improvised minefield. Look how far it stretches," Tasha says in awe.

Tears come to Ishara's blue eyes, hot and bitter. "Why would someone do that?"

"I dunno, but we have to get out of here now." Tasha turns her sister around and moves off quickly, eyes trained on the ground.

"What's the blast range?" Ishara is not yet six, but about some things she is savvy beyond her years.

"If they're the same bombs the Alliance used on that settlement last month, one can kill you at 100 meters. Maim you at 300."

"Run faster!"

Their tired legs and arms pump. "We have to warn the other little kids."

Sweat is streaking clean lines down the dust on Ishara's face. "I bet that boy was Aliiance. I hate him. I hate the Alliance."

"Don't kid yourself. They're all bad. Doesn't matter what they call themselves." They reach the bottom of the hill and start to scuttle up the steep incline.

They've climbed halfway up when the sound of sliding rocks draws their eyes to the originator – a young boy climbing down.

"Go back!" Tasha shouts. "It's not food – it's a minefield!"

"You just want it all for yourself!" he shouts back. "Greedy liar!"

"No lie! Go back – you'll kill us all!"

Tasha's screams are no use – the boy only speeds his descent.

The pure adrenaline of the survival instinct floods Tasha's body. She calculates quickly – he has the easier trip going down than they do going up. If he reaches the first mines before they're over the top, they will die.

"Faster, Shara, go, go, go!" Tasha drags her sister in front of her and pushes on her rump.

Their breath comes in ragged squeaks. They're not careful now – poison ivy is nothing compared to hot shrapnel. They hear the scuffle of feet sliding to the ground. They dare not look back – they still can't see the top of the hill.

"Go, go, go," Tasha chants behind clenched teeth.

Ishara stumbles. Tasha grabs her and holds her under one arm like an unwieldy watermelon, half-carrying her along. _More time, we need more time,_ she thinks.

The shriek in the distance is instantly cut off, simultaneous with an explosion that burns the ears. Tasha throws her sister down flat and covers her, just over the plateau, gravel and stones digging in to her flesh. She waits for the searing, flying metal to shred her skin, waits with the sound of their screams in her ears.

It never comes. Somehow, they are alive, unscathed. They made it out of range. It is a miracle, but she has no benefactor to thank. Quiet settles over them again, save for the sound of Ishara's sobbing.

"Shhh…" Tasha hugs the tiny body shaking beneath her. "Don't cry, Shar-shar. I got you. I got you."


	2. Chapter 2

Two

The meeting is a brainstorming session between the engineering and security staffs, the room awash with gold uniforms. Security Chief Powell and Chief Engineer Amanian do most of the talking, while the assistant chiefs from both departments fix on the virtual map glowing above the conference table. The map shows a colony built into the side of a mountain, lit up with red and blue dots like a thousand sonic spanners in the field yards of Utopia Planetia.

"You're telling me there's no way to beam them out?" Powell demands. He's an imposing man with a body like an inverted triangle and a grizzled head full of prematurely grey hair.

"It's not just the minefield. There are sensor disruptors spaced evenly along the perimeter of the settlement." Amanian is petite, with olive skin and straight black hair pulled back in a loose knot, dark eyes that dart from face to face to map, taking in everything at once. She talks fast with a clipped rhythm that reveals her unwillingness to wait for anyone who can't keep up. "We're lucky to pinpoint the mines – took every bit of power we could redirect to the sensors."

"Can we take out the sensor disruptors with phasers?" Powell asks.

Armanian smiles grimly. "They're mined, too. The splinter group was very thorough."

"They must've been planning this for months," says one of the assistant chief security officers, his voice low.

"Maybe years," Powell adds. "They're not blocking communications. Can we get the map to the settlers?"

"To what end? We've got one route wide enough for a human to get through. Computer: display safe route Amanian seven." A squiggly white line winds through the red dots, as random as a toddler's doodle. "The mines are detonated by proximity and vibration. You think we can lead one terrified colonist through, let alone 120?"

"All right, Danica. We're looking for options here."

An assistant chief of security speaks up. "We could send down a bomb expert, try to defuse the mine on a sensor disruptor, and then destroy it."

"Dangerous. And we don't know the range of a single disruptor. We might have to disable several to get a lock on all 120 colonists," Amanian replies. "And we're talking about defusing the explosives closest to them. One mistake and everybody says goodbye."

An assistant chief engineer offers, "What about pattern enhancers? We could boost the targeting beam past the threshold of the jamming signals."

"And how do we beam down the pattern enhancers if we can't get a lock on the location?"

There is silence.

"I'm not being Nelly Negative," Amanian continues. "We need ideas that will work."

Another assistant chief security officer stands and moves closer to the map. "What's the range of the disruptors?"

"About three hundred meters around the plain."

"We could cut through the rock face behind the settlement," another engineer offers, "try to tunnel them out."

Danica is skeptical. "That could take all day. The splinter group is going to notice a giant phaser beam in the sky. And it might cause a rockslide. Rock hits minefield, everyone goes boom."

The assistant chief security officer is still standing, frowning at the map. She is slim but curvaceous, the inviting body contrasted by a severe haircut, light on top and dark on the bottom, and serious blue eyes. "What if we beam in one person here, past the signal disruptor's range, with a set of pattern enhancers, and walk them through the safe route to the colonists?"

"It's suicide," Amanian pronounces.

"You said there was room for a human to get through." The young officer is undaunted.

Amanian exchanges a look with Powell. "Yes, but one misstep…"

"I volunteer."

Powell sizes up the earnest assistant chief. He is not surprised. "I'm not interested in losing one of my best officers, Lt. Yar."

Tasha meets his fierce gaze without flinching. "One officer for 120 colonists…"

"We don't do that kind of math here."

"I can do it. Let me try. No one else has come up with a workable plan."

"Tricorders won't work down there. How will you get through the minefield?" Danica asks, ever practical.

"We'll download a map to a padd. Aerial view, ground view…"

"A map?"

Tasha straightens to full height and folds her arms behind her back. "Sure. I'm good with directions."

Powell grunts. "We need to keep brainstorming."

"We could negotiate…" a young engineer begins.

"We don't negotiate with murderers," Powell interrupts unapologetically.

"The splinter group has made it abundantly clear that they want the settlement for its defensive position, and they'll kill anyone that stands in their way. Our objective is to rescue the colonists before they become casualties," Danica reminds them.

There is silence once more. Tasha remains standing, as do Powell and Amanian.

"We'd have to program the pattern enhancers for a whopping load. It's no use getting them through the mines if they can't boost the colonists' signal high enough." Assistant chief engineer Guerrido doesn't meet Tasha's eyes as he says this.

Danica does, a quick, searching glance that flits back to Guerrido's face. "How long?"

"An hour at most to modify the amplitude."

Amanian looks appraisingly at Powell. He turns to Tasha. "We could fit you with body armor."

"It would only slow me down. My mobility will already be reduced by the pattern enhancers." The unspoken thought is there – no body armor could withstand the detonation from a mine designed to take out an armored vehicle. His suggestion is a gesture only.

Powell clenches his jaw. "We need more time to come up with alternatives."

"We don't have more time. The splinter group has dug in and they're spoiling for a fight." Danica is showing her pips now, a lieutenant commander ready to make the hard decisions. "If we wait, the colonists might become hostages, or worse."

"A demonstration of their seriousness," a security officer finishes.

Powell looks over Yar. She's been on his team for two years. She's mouthy. Impulsive. Young and overeager, but not foolhardy. She has something to prove – it was written all over her from day one – something to rise above. She's risen quickly, mostly through her responsiveness and acts of bravery. She's destined to go far, if she doesn't get herself killed.

He gives Danica an almost imperceptible nod.

"Start preparing the pattern enhancers," she orders Guerrido. "Accuracy is better than speed."

"Yes, sir."

Powell has locked eyes with Yar, blue on blue. "I'll take your proposal to the captain."

"Yes, sir."

His eyes narrow; his voice quiets. "Have you prepared a …"

She catches on immediately. "No, sir. I have no one to say goodbye to." It's not exactly true. There's Worf and some old school chums and friends from her last posting, but no one who would cry his eyes out at the news. "Besides, I plan to come back."

"See that you do."

* * *

Yar and Guerrido are alone in the transporter room with the crewman at the control console. Guerrido tightens the straps of the harness, adjusting the bundle of three pattern enhancers lashed to her back.

"Make it tight," Yar says. "I'm toast if anything slips."

"You won't be able to get them off." Nevertheless, he cinches the straps tighter.

"If this works, I'll have 120 willing helpers to get them off me." As he passes a hand along her back, she wonders if he can feel her trembling.

"It has to work," he mutters. "I'm shit with directions."

She laughs. "Who'd send you?"

"Same kind of idiot who'd volunteer. Can you move your arms?"

She rolls her shoulders and swings her limbs. "Right one's a bit tight."

He moves to adjust it. "Why'd you volunteer, anyway?"

She flinches at his fingers under her armpit. "Because I know something of these people. Colonists have that old pioneer spirit, the urge to try themselves against the unknown. They're looking for freedom, adventure. But for some people, that independent spirit takes on a different color. They want more than freedom – they want all the control. The Federation gets them out to a brand new place to call home, and suddenly they're the oppressors. The poor settlers who just wanted a little farm and a place to raise a family are called sympathizers. It gets twisted around. That splinter group can pretend they're freedom fighters or peacekeepers, but they're not. They're terrorists."

Guerrido finishes and gives the harness a push. It doesn't budge. "It's ready," he says. "Are you?"

She gives him a forced smile. "Ready as I'll ever be."

She steps onto the transporter pad and tries to calm her shaking. Her stomach and heart have crowded into her throat. She has the padd in hand and looks at the map again, though by now it's burned into her retinas. "Wish me luck?"

He wishes he could kiss her cheek – she looks young and scared, despite her forced brightness. "Good luck, Yar."

"Captain, I'm ready to beam down."

"Very well, Lieutenant. Godspeed."

The shaking has traveled up to her mouth. She takes a shuddering breath. She is sure the two men in the room can hear her heart beating. She says quietly, to hide the tremor, "Energize."

* * *

The young blonde officer appears in the viewscreen, trussed up like a burro with the pattern enhancers.

"Keep your comm. line open, Lt. Yar," the captain orders.

"Yes, sir." She hopes they'll be spared from hearing and seeing her die. It would be all over for her in an instant, but it's the kind of image that stays with a person forever. "Commander, can you get me to the exact starting point?"

'About ten steps forward will take you to the perimeter." Amanian is on the bridge. She's run several simulations; the room for error is slight once Yar starts off on the winding route. A hand-span will be the difference between life and death.

Tasha checks her tricorder for wind speed and direction as she counts steps. The shaking has slowed and been replaced by a numb, out-of-body sensation. She is hyperaware of the crunch of gravel under her boots and the harsh sun in her eyes, but it seems to be happening to someone else.

"Stop. You're a step away from the minefield. Can you get any readings?"

"I've got a screenful of snow," Tasha replies. She stows the tricorder and raises the padd to eye level. "I'm ready."

"Three steps forward." Amanian looks not at the viewscreen, but to the monitor at mission ops. She's got the red glow of the mines, the yellow lozenge of Yar's biosignal, and the blue dots of the sensor disruptors lighting up her screen. The drain on the ship's power is enormous, just to keep the image live. "Stop. Sharp right. Two steps."

All eyes on the bridge are glued to the young officer onscreen. She moves slowly and economically, making no stray motions that might trigger an explosion.

"Sharp right. Three steps."

Tasha checks Amanian's voice commands against the map and turns. The shaking is completely gone, and she's back inside her body in a state of flow, as if she were playing the perfect game of parrises squares, or in the middle of a long distance run.

"Forty-five degrees to the left. Three steps on the diagonal. Stop. Step over about a half meter."

Tasha extends one long leg into space.

"Right there. Step down. Follow with the left."

She obeys, still in one piece. She can see the colonists clumped together at the edge of the settlement, well away from the minefield's end.

The choreographed moves between Amanian and Yar go on. After several minutes of silence, the navigator speaks. "Captain, another ship is coming out of warp. They're hailing us."

"Onscreen," he replies automatically, then, "Belay that. Voice only."

"You've beaten me to the punch, I see," comes over the speakers in an accented, patrician voice.

"Captain Jean-Luc Picard. Sorry to steal your thunder. I have an officer down there risking her life on a very tricky plan."

On the bridge of his starship, Jean-Luc directs his ops officer to put the unfolding drama onscreen. He sees her, young, graceful, and intent, moving so slowly and with such care, she appears to be gliding.

Tasha checks the padd. "This is the doubleback."

"Yes. Put heel to toe. You're smack dab in a cluster of them." Amanian's firm voice is an anchor over the comm.

Tasha describes a tight S in the dirt. She has no spit to swallow; her eyes are dry from staring.

"You're halfway there. You're doing great."

"Thanks," Tasha mutters. She doesn't want to break concentration to feel any relief. She wants to pour it on until the end.

"Captain," Picard's voice renders Amanian's a backdrop on the bridge. "What's the name of that officer?"

"Lt. J.G. Natasha Yar."

"Natasher Yar…"

"We call her Tasha."

Jean-Luc nods, thinking, thinking…

"Three steps forward. Do you need to rest? It's a relatively clear spot."

"No, let's get on with it." Tasha's voice is breathier than usual, breaking a little on the ah vowel.

"15 degrees right. Seven steps."

She can see their faces now. The colonists are scared, anxious, yet hopeful. _Please don't let them see me die,_ she thinks. _I'm so close._

"Tasha, stop. I'm losing the image."

"It's okay; I know exactly where I am on the map."

"No, don't move. I have to reroute more power to the sensor array. Those disruptors are strong little buggers."

"I can do it alone."

"Stop moving, Lieutenant. That's an order."

Tasha stops, angry at the loss of momentum. The featureless plain looks ever more menacing as the seconds tick by, hidden killers buried under lumps of yellow soil.

"Got it back. Damn it, Yar, you've veered off course. Don't move a muscle."

Cold sweat springs out all over her body. She starts shaking again; her tongue and eyelids feel thick. "Aye, sir."

"Take a step back. Straight back. Don't turn around."

She obeys; the movement feels familiar. A moment of déjà vu, distracting.

"Now keep your feet in one spot and turn your shoulders forty-five degrees to the left. A little more."

Tasha feels like a marionette, the unseen ship tugging her strings.

"A little more. Good. Now step back on that angle, so your feet line up with your shoulders. Carefully."

Tasha moves with agonizingly slowness, as if underwater.

"That's it." Amanian breathes out. She doesn't say that the officer had been centimeters from two mines – a mere jostle would've ended it all. "Turn right. One step forward. Step over about a half meter on a 30 degree angle. Right there."

The black uniformed leg Tasha stretches out is heavy and tired. Her muscles are bunched, cramped, stressed. She points her toe and puts it down, brings the other leg over with a controlled hop. She looks up to see the colonists holding hands, lips moving. They are whispering, staying quiet for her, but she can feel them rooting for her. She gets a burst of energy.

"You're almost out of the woods. Turn left. Two small steps. Fifteen degrees left. Three steps."

On the other bridge, Picard is mesmerized by the slow-moving officer. Indeed, his crew is silent as well, no sound at all save the occasional buzz from the consoles.

_She's going to make it,_ he thinks.

Tasha is so close now. The colonists are inching closer, too, and she can almost hear them murmuring. They are almost too close – dangerously close to the demarcated edge of the minefield. And then a child squeezes through to the front, popping out between the tightly bunched knees of the adults. The boy stumbles.

"No, go back!" Tasha's shout comes with an instinctive gesture and it throws her off balance – she pitches forward. A gasp goes up from the colonists; they stare transfixed as she wobbles and rights herself. For a moment, she stands still, just breathing. A woman is holding the little boy tightly.

"Get back," Tasha orders, her voice under control once more, "or you'll kill us all."

Amanian's voice is steady as a lighthouse beam. "Just a hundred meters to go, Yar. Go slow. Accuracy, not speed."

"Aye, sir." Tasha is fully engaged with the land and the air. It's not just her life she's risking anymore. An explosion would send shrapnel into the crowd. The closer she gets, the larger the number of dead and maimed settlers if she makes a mistake. She wills herself to be impeccable in every motion.

"This is the last double back. Make it as tight as you can. Like that – you're dead center between the mines."

"Nice choice of words, sir."

"Sorry." Amanian is breathing hard, too – her body is as tensed as a tightwire. "This is the loop. You're going to want to hit your starting point, but three meters distant. Make a nice big curve."

Tasha's muscles are burning and the sun is beating down without a cloud to subdue it. The pack feels heavier and heavier on her back, but she soldiers on, watching, listening, willing herself to keep moving.

"Home stretch. Just fifty meters."

She could run across in a matter of seconds, were it not for the death dealers lying in wait underground. Two seconds and oblivion is all that lies ahead in a straight line. It is torturous to have to turn away from the waiting colonists, go back and around, just to come forward another half meter. And she is so tired.

"Three steps on the diagonal. Then right. A little more."

She can see the tears in their eyes, lines where dirt has settled into wrinkles on their faces. So many people crowded into one spot, all depending on her…

"Stay still, Tasha. I'm losing the image again."

She obeys, standing stock still though she wants to bend down and ease the load on her back, if only for a moment.

On the viewscreen, Picard watches the young officer bow her head, blonde fringe covering her face, and raise it again, determination in her eyes. He is struck by what he sees – a combination of strength and vulnerability that he finds appealing. And then he remembers a debt of gratitude owed him by her captain.

"Got it. 45 degrees left, Tasha, and five slow steps. You're almost clear."

She can hear words in the murmurs now – encouragement, prayers, praise, affirmation. They carry her through the shreds of fatigue and lift the heavy burden. She's been creeping along for over an hour. The last minutes seem to stretch out twice that long.

"Engineering has matched their boost to the sensors, sir," Picard's helmsman announces. "I can see the mines. Just a few more turns and she's through."

"Come on, Lieutenant," breathes the tactical officer.

"Come on. You can do it." As the Starfleet officer inches closer, the colonists can see how young she is. She can't be more than 25 or 26, younger than most of the adults knotted up together and waiting for her to save them.

"Please, let her make it."

"So close. Just a little more."

"Please protect her."

"Let her live. Let us live."

"You're near the perimeter. It's a straight line of mines. You'll have to clear them in one leap." Amanian's voice is still brisk and firm over the comm.

"Affirmative." Tasha breathes deep and gathers herself for the jump. She needs to go far and land lightly. She hopes the colonists' whispered prayers will give her wings. "I'm going on three, Commander. One…two…three!"

She bounds into the air like a gazelle and lands on both feet, bending her knees to absorb the shock. Then she straightens and strides towards the crowd unimpeded. Over her combadge comes the sound of cheering.

"She did it! She made it!"

Tasha wants to slump down, but holds herself erect. "Help me get this off," she asks dully.

A dozen hands reach out to help her unstrap the harness, some touching her face, her hair, her hands. She leans over to give them better access. More hands reach out, she sees the harness in their hands, but the phantom weight remains. She hears them thanking her; she should feel relief, but she's out of her body again and longing for rest. And the hands go on touching her, stroking her weary back, and suddenly the moment seems more real. She begins to feel relief and something else. Pride.

* * *

**A/N: Took the teensiest bit of artistic liberty with Picard's lines from Legacy. It's hard to write a believable sci-fi story about an officer saving _one _wounded colonist. (Why couldn't they just beam him up?) Do you forgive me?**


	3. Chapter 3

Three

She can't see it, but she thinks the filled pip feels different than the hollow one did. The reception is in full swing, the last person having congratulated her and the good-natured teasing finally tapering off. Most of it centered on her seriousness and devotion to duty, and how like a green cadet it makes her. There are worse things to be ribbed about.

The captain threads his way through the crowd to her, holding a glass of champagne in one hand and a portable data file in the other. "Congratulations again, Lieutenant."

"Thank you, sir."

"I thought I should wait until the party wound down to give you this, but it doesn't look like that's going to happen anytime soon."

"Sir?"

"Your transfer orders."

Tasha takes the data file hesitantly. "I don't understand…"

"You've been assigned to the new flagship. As her chief of security and tactical officer."

Tasha flushes a deep red, her mouth open. "The Enterprise?"

"That is correct."

She stares down at the clear rectangle with reverence. "This can't be real. It's like a dream come true," she whispers. Then, louder, "You're not putting me on, are you, sir?"

"Would I lie to you about this? Picard is stealing one of my best officers. That's no joke."

"Capt. Picard…" The reality is still sinking in slowly. It seems impossible. "My god." She remembers herself after a moment. "Don't get me wrong, Captain. It's been an honor to serve with you."

"Yes, yes. It's all right, Lieutenant. As you were."

She still can't quite take it in. "Captain, do you think it's okay if I duck out of my own party?"

"Go ahead. We'll have to throw another one to say goodbye."

"Thank you, sir." Tasha slips off to the door.

She rushes through the corridor and waits impatiently in the turbolift, eager to get to her cabin. Once there, she feeds the data file into the computer and as it downloads, checks out her reflection in the mirror. The two gold pips look good, even if the uncomfortable dress uniform does not. She orders a drink from the replicator and sits down to read her orders.

There it is in undeniable black on white – head tactical officer and chief of security on the USS Enterprise. Her eyes are stuck on the line. She sips her drink and reads it again and again.

When the sense of surreality begins to wears off, she reads the rest. The new galaxy class starship will have a massive crew and for the first time, families onboard. There will be civilians and children. Her heart falters. And it will be her job to ensure their safety. A thousand people…

She blinks and wishes she'd ordered something stronger than tea. She'll have to supervise a full staff and run drills with children. Of course, it's good for the fleet, to go into deep space with their loved ones, but the mere thought is intimidating.

"Computer, access crew manifest for the USS Enterprise."

"That information is restricted to level one security clearance."

"Enter code Yar theta seven pi."

"Access granted."

Tasha scrolls through the names and lets out a low whistle. Many of the senior spots are blank – there's no first officer yet, no CMO, but of the names that do appear, there are several that she recognizes from professional journals and honor logs. The crew is the best of the best. They are not just officers and non-coms, they are scholars, innovators, leaders, and heroes. Legends.

She leans back in her chair. What the hell is her name doing among theirs?

She can click through to read the public accomplishments of any crewperson. One is known for advances in plasma containment efficiency. Another is credited with the recent upgrades in replicator technology. Still another is an authority on twentieth century popular fiction. On and on, she reads about men and women known for brilliance and intelligence and expertise and what is she known for? Being brave and having a big mouth.

While her current post is not an impressive one, she's grown comfortable here. She's worked hard to fit in, even though she still struggles to open up to her crewmates and trust them. But she considers them her equals. Not perfect, not the cream of the crop, just hardworking and ready to learn.

The Enterprise will be different. These are accomplished professionals at the top of their careers. How can she hope to compete? She's practically a fraud in comparison. She wonders when she'll first open her trap and blurt out something that tells everyone in hearing that she's different. It'll be tough to watch everything she says and does – to try to come off as polished as they are. Maybe she'll never get comfortable and will forever walk on eggshells around her shiny new crewmates, on her best behavior all the time. It might be another minefield – not deadly, but just as treacherous.

She puts her head down on her desk. Typical that her elation over her promotion should be promptly followed by dread.

She takes a deep breath and tries to calm down. _Capt. Picard requested me,_ she thinks._ He_ _requested _me._ The waiting list for a post on the Enterprise must be as long as a comet's tail, yet he wants me. How does he know me? We've never met._

Tasha searches her mind. He must've seen some potential in her. Something that told him she was right for the job. Tears stab at her eyes unexpectedly – _he believes in me._ A legendary captain... it's incredible.

She sits up and rubs the heel of her hand into her eyes. _If he believes in me, no way will I let him down._ She'll be the best damn tactical officer in the fleet. She knows she can do it. She's done harder things before. She gets up and looks in the mirror again, stares hard at the grave blue eyes, lashes still wet.

"You'll make it," she says aloud. "I know you can."


End file.
